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The Last Broadcast PART 1

 

The Last Broadcast PART 1




The emergency broadcast system hadn't been activated in two days. Ellis took that as a bad sign.

He sat in the cramped radio booth, headphones pressed against his ears, scanning frequencies for any sign of life. Static crackled through the headset like distant gunfire. Outside, the setting sun painted the abandoned parking lot in shades of crimson and gold—beautiful, if you could ignore the shambling figures casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt.

"Day seventeen," Ellis spoke into the microphone, his voice hoarse from disuse. "This is WKRP Cincinnati, broadcasting on all emergency frequencies. If anyone can hear this, respond. Please."

He paused, listening to the void. Nothing. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before.

The station generator hummed steadily beneath his feet. Enough fuel for another week, maybe two if he rationed carefully. The vending machine down the hall had been picked clean three days ago. His stomach growled in protest, but hunger was the least of his concerns.

"Current situation unchanged," he continued, going through the motions. "Downtown is overrun. Suburbs too, from what I've seen. Military checkpoint at Harrison Bridge has been abandoned. If anyone from the National Guard is listening, your men at Harrison are gone."

Ellis glanced at the Polaroid taped to the console. Sarah and Emma, laughing at some long-forgotten joke at last year's company picnic. Sarah's dark hair catching the sunlight, Emma's gap-toothed smile. He'd sent them to his mother's place in rural Kentucky when the first cases appeared in the city. That was three weeks ago. No word since.

"If anyone in the Georgetown area is receiving this, check 1274 Meadowlark Lane. Family of two. Sarah and Emma Collins. If they're..." He swallowed hard. "If they're still there, tell them Ellis is alive. Tell them I'm coming."

A dull thud from down the hall snapped his attention away from the microphone. Ellis reached for the baseball bat leaning against the desk, his grip tightening around the worn handle. Another thud, louder this time. The emergency exit door.

"Hold position," he whispered to himself, a mantra from his two years in the Army Reserves. "Hold position."

The thuds continued, rhythmic and insistent. They knew he was here. They always knew.

Ellis had barricaded himself in the radio station after escaping the hospital where he worked as an orderly. He'd seen firsthand how quickly the infection spread—how the dead rose with milky eyes and ravenous appetites. How they remembered just enough of their former lives to be dangerous. How they could open doors.

The emergency exit groaned under the assault. Metal bending. Hinges straining.

"I have to sign off earlier than expected," Ellis said, his voice steady despite the fear clawing at his throat. "If anyone is listening, there are supplies here—food, medicine, ammunition. Third floor of the WKRP building on Vine Street. I'll leave what I can."

A splintering crack echoed down the hallway. They were through.

Ellis yanked open the desk drawer and retrieved the revolver—five rounds left. Enough to buy time, not enough to stop what was coming. He placed it beside the microphone, within easy reach.

"This is Ellis Collins, possibly the last broadcaster in Cincinnati." He took a deep breath. "If anyone finds this recording, remember us. Remember what we were before all this. And if by some miracle you find my family..."

The shuffling sounds grew closer, accompanied by the guttural moans he'd come to dread.

"Tell them I tried to come home."

Ellis reached for the gun as the first of them appeared in the doorway—a woman in tattered scrubs, her throat a ragged cavity of exposed muscle and bone. She'd been a nurse at his hospital, though he couldn't recall her name. Behind her, more figures pushed forward, drawn by the sound of his voice, the promise of warm flesh.

Ellis aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger.

"This is WKRP Cincinnati, signing off."

The broadcast dissolved into static.

Three hundred miles away, in a farmhouse basement in rural Kentucky, Sarah Collins huddled beside a ham radio, her daughter asleep against her shoulder. The voice crackled through the speaker, distorted but unmistakable.

"Ellis," she whispered, fingers trembling as she adjusted the dial. "Ellis, we're here. We're alive."

But only static answered her call.

Outside, across the moonlit fields, shadows moved toward the farmhouse.


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